


A Sweep of Sand

by RoaringMice



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-25 23:36:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18711985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoaringMice/pseuds/RoaringMice
Summary: Trip died in These Are the Voyages, didn't he? Alternate take....Trip was dead, and he'd just… left. Left it all behind. His career. His friends. His sanity, perhaps. The idea had been there, that he might do this. That he might keep going, not return, and not have to admit that he was seeing his dead friend.





	A Sweep of Sand

* * *

**Chapter 1:**

* * *

**This is the first story I've written since 2012, and the first Enterprise story I've written since 2009. I'm nervous and hope you like it, and gratuitously begging for reviews! :)**

_"A beach is not only a sweep of sand, but shells of sea creatures, the sea glass, the seaweed, the incongruous objects washed up by the ocean." Henry Grunwald_

Takes place just after "These Are the Voyages". Alternate take on what actually happened.

 

x-x

Malcolm let his feet scrape through the leaves, releasing the scent of autumn, and of school, and of new beginnings, and of death. Somewhat appropriate, he thought, moving his eyes from the leaves on the forest floor below him, through the mist to the trees scraping the blue sky above, looking anywhere but at –

He blinked and lowered his gaze, staring purposefully this time, willing it away. It. Him. Trip. Trip, who was there beside him, always there, still in that same foolish blue jumpsuit they have to wear as uniforms, walking beside him, God, he could even hear the man's feet sliding through the leaves, which was impossible, right? Because the man was dead, and had been so for, since, since –

Malcolm stopped, closed his eyes, and stilled. His heart was pounding in his chest, his breath short. He inhaled deliberately, exhaled slowly, trying for a sense of control. The place was damp, the fog burning off, the smell of the leaves overwhelming. It should have been calming.

"I love the trees here. I brought Lizzie here once when she visited."

And *would* have been calming if Trip would just. Shut. Up.

The visions, he'd been having them since Trip had died. He'd tried ignoring them. That had not worked. Obviously. And he knew he should speak to Phlox about this. Would have done, but he'd been hoping they'd just go away, and they'd all been so damn busy – but that wasn't it. He was afraid of his own thoughts on the subject, some of the things he'd considered as the reasons why this was happening, as possible options for stopping this. Of what all this meant about the state of his mental health. Or maybe he'd been afraid that if others knew what was going on, and what he was thinking, they'd – he wasn't sure. That he'd end up shunted off somewhere "for his own good" or what have you, or drugged up and separated from the service, with the resulting disgrace to his family, and one could not have that, could one, oh, no; no insanity amongst the Reeds, or at least not so that others could see it. God, it'd be better if he –

Malcolm felt a sudden chill, and pulled his jumper sleeves down over his hands, wrapping his arms around himself. He hadn't thought to bring a coat. He'd left during the hubbub of the reception, all congratulations on a job well done, welcome homes, handshakes, happiness, and none of that mattered, because Trip was still dead, and he'd just… left. Left it all behind. His career. His friends. His sanity. Perhaps. Or not quite. But the idea had been there. That he might keep going, not return, and not have to admit that he was seeing his dead friend. And he'd been sorely tempted to keep going, keep running, until sanity – he snickered – had prevailed, and instead he'd settled on finding a few minutes of peace, perhaps, in these woods, before he had to go back and –

"The redwoods are cool, aren't they?"

He steeled himself, purposefully ignoring the voice. He'd been hoping that returning home, to Earth, might somehow… he wasn't sure, actually. He rubbed a hand, still wrapped in his sweater, across his forehead. Maybe he'd been hoping that he'd feel more grounded here. That the distance of space and time from what had happened might give him… something… and make all this stop. But of course, it had not.

Malcolm opened his eyes and started walking again, as if he had a purpose. He supposed he did, in a way. He remembered this place well from his days at the academy – it had been one of the places he'd go when he needed to be alone and to think. Most people, unknowing, assumed Muir Woods was only about the giant redwoods, but there were maples and oaks and laurels as well, the leaves rustling beneath his footfalls, the place so close to the city, yet a world away from it.

"The trees here are nothing like back at home in Florida."

This wasn't some odd side effect of exposure to some alien substance. The timing was wrong for that. The visions, hallucinations, had started only after Trip had died, only once they'd begun their return to Earth. There had been no opportunity for exposure to –

"I wonder if T'Pol has ever –"

"Please, God," Malcolm stopped and held up a hand, forcing himself to meet the eye of the other man. "Trip, stop. I need you to just…" He closed his eyes for a moment, then forced himself to look at Trip again. "You're supposed to be dead."

Trip cocked his head to the side, seeming to consider, then dismiss that fact. "And yet, here I am."

"Lucky me," Malcolm replied dryly. He walked away from Trip, off the path and to the base of one of the larger trees. Putting a hand against the bark, he lowered himself to a seat on the brown needles at its base, and started picking at one of the ferns growing up between them. It was warmer now, here in this patch of sunlight, the cool in the forest air refreshing rather than chilling. He tried brushing some dirt off his trousers, giving up when he realized it was useless. His hands were just as dirty as his trousers. He wasn't quite sure why that was so.

"Listen, you keep saying that I'm dead, but I'm obviously not." Trip stood with his arms out, as if taking in the woods around him. He strode towards Malcolm, squatting in front of him, hands draped casually across his knees. "If I were dead, why would I be here with you now? That makes no sense, Malcolm."

"You're a figment of my…" Malcolm waved a hand vaguely.

"I keep telling you that I'm not dead." Trip sat with a huff. "You need to go see Phlox."

"That might be… difficult," Malcolm said, eyes moving from the fern between his fingers, to the man in front of him, and back to the plant. "I believe I'm AWOL." He looked to Trip again. Trip's eyes had gone wide. "I left the ceremony, changed out of my uniform, left my communicator behind, and I've been gone, what?" Malcolm looked at the angle of the shadows around him. "Has to be six hours, now. They'll be looking for me."

"So maybe you should head back, meet them."

Malcolm leaned against the trunk behind him, bracing himself against it. "I'll be arrested. Court-martialed. Discharged."

"Not if you can get to Phlox first," Trip replied.

"What the hell will I say?"

"How about the truth?" At the look on Malcolm's face, Trip chuckled. "Seriously." Trip pointed at him. "You tell Phlox that you're seeing someone you think is dead, they're not going to be so worried about you being AWOL." Trip stood and held out a hand. "It's going to be fine." Malcolm looked at him doubtfully, and he waved Malcolm up. "Come on."

Malcolm grasped Trip's hand and levered himself to standing. He started walking, back the way he'd come.

"It's going to be fine, Malcolm," Trip said from behind him.

Malcolm kept walking, throwing back over his shoulder, "No, it is not."

 

* * *

**Chapter 2:**

* * *

Malcolm never made it as far as Phlox. Once he'd hit the outskirts of the base, he'd been grabbed, handled, and he'd let the process happen, saying as little as possible as he was shuffled from the custody of the MPs to the cell he was currently in. He'd cooperated throughout, knowing the more he did so, the less they'd feel on edge around him, the easier it would be if he chose to run.

His hands gripped the edge of the bed he was sitting on, the metal frame cool against his skin. He noticed his knuckles had gone white, and he tried to relax his hands, to release the tension he could feel across his neck and shoulders, to breathe deeply. When he realized that he was then twisting and untwisting the hem of the scrubs they'd put him in, he stilled his now clean fingers, smoothing out the seam. He could hear the occasional movement of the guard, muffled by the door between them. As far as he could tell, there was only the one guard, and no other prisoners in this area. Small cell, little furniture – the bed, the toilet, a small sink about made up its contents. At least one camera embedded in the ceiling, no doubt feeding a monitor somewhere in the building. Smooth grey walls climbing to a ceiling crisscrossed with pipes. He could probably reach those pipes if he stood on the sink, might be able to string the sheet from the bed around one of them…

"What are you thinking of?" Trip stood by the door, peering down at Malcolm. Trip hadn't been there previously; last Malcolm had heard from him was back in the woods. But Trip's comings and goings no longer surprised him.

"I've been thinking of possible ways to escape," Malcolm said, lifting his eyes back up to the pipes above him, then looking back at Trip.

Trip gazed at him warily. "You know you're not acting like yourself, right?" Trip walked over, sitting beside him on the bed, shoulder touching Malcolm's. "The Malcolm I know would never consider... What I think you're considering."

"I know," Malcolm said. It was this – that Trip was right – that caused a rising sense of panic. He was not okay; this was not okay. "I know something's wrong. I mean, I'm seeing you, and I'm not sure, even beyond that…" He shrugged, trying to seem calm. "I'm not sure how clearly I'm thinking." Which was, as Trip might say, totally freaking him out. He could feel his heart beat in his chest, a flush in his face. Whatever was going on with him, he was not okay.

"You have been doing some odd stuff," Trip said. "Taking off like you did. Thinking I'm dead." Trip turned to him. "You're not yourself right now, Malcolm." Trip glanced at the camera. "You know they're watching, right?"

Malcolm nodded. He was fast, though. He could probably get it done and be gone before they could message the guard in the hall, unlock the door, and get to him.

Trip shifted, turning to face him. "Listen, if you start thinking about…" Trip looked up at the pipes, then back at Malcolm again. "If you start thinking like that, you talk to me first, okay?"

Before Malcolm could think of a reply, there was a clattering at the door, and it opened.

"I'm Doctor Furman," a man said, dragging a chair through the door. American, from the accent. Dark skin, dark hair, white coat – Malcolm could have guessed he was a doctor of some type, and from his outfit, a civilian at that. "I've been asked to see you." The door stayed open behind Furman, the guard beyond it stepping a few metres away, as if to give them some privacy.

"What type of doctor?" Malcolm asked.

"A psych assessment," Trip whispered, nudging his shoulder.

"A psychologist," Furman answered, planting himself on the chair, leaning back, and looking directly at Malcolm. "They tell me you've been talking to someone in here."

Apparently, the doctor wasn't afraid to get right to the point. Malcolm glanced to Trip, then back to Furman. "Can I speak to Doctor Phlox, from my ship?"

Furman seemed to consider this. "That may be possible, once we're done. Who is it you've been speaking to?"

"Tell him," Trip said from beside him.

"I'd rather talk to Phlox," Malcolm said, pointedly ignoring Trip.

Furman shifted in his chair. "Why did you go AWOL?" he asked, taking a different approach.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," Malcolm shot out before he could stop himself.

"Malcolm, don't be an ass," Trip said, poking him in the shoulder. "Tell him… Actually," he added, seeming thoughtful. "Ask him how long you were gone for."

"A few hours," Malcolm said. "Less than a day."

"You were AWOL for three days, Lieutenant," Furman said, his wrinkled brow finally hinting at his concern.

Malcolm winced, closing his eyes. If this doctor was to be believed, he'd lost time. What the hell had he been doing for three bloody days?

Malcolm felt Trip leave the bed, heard him move away, but Malcolm didn't open his eyes. He needed… something, but that something did not involve seeing Trip standing behind this psychologist bloke, or psychiatrist, or what have you, and having them both go after him.

"You should tell him what's going on." When Malcolm continued to ignore him, Trip said, "You know I can just keep talking until you tell him, don't you? Because you've got to talk to someone about all this, and if it's this Furman guy, then it's this Furman –

"Shh…" Malcolm responded quietly, raising a finger to his lips. He felt a hand touch his knee unexpectedly, and jumped.

Furman was leaning forward, moving his hand away now. "Who's here?"

Malcolm exhaled audibly.

"Who's here?" Furman repeated.

"Tell him," Trip said at the same time.

Oh, for fuck's sake. "Trip," Malcolm said with exasperation. "My friend Trip… Commander Tucker. Who is supposed to be dead but who will just not shut up," Malcolm said with a pointed look at his friend. He looked back to Furman, who had the grace, or the professionalism, to not seem surprised by this admission. "Trip thinks that I've not been acting myself," Malcolm added. "And I reckon he's right."

"In what way?" Furman asked, leaning back in his chair.

"You mean, other than the 'talking to a dead friend' thing?" Trip added with a laugh.

Malcolm looked to Furman. He raised a finger. "Seeing someone who is dead." Then another. "Going AWOL." Then a third. "Thinking of…" he trailed off, unsure of how he wanted to say this, or if he wanted to say it at all.

"Of escape," Trip added quietly.

Malcolm nodded. "That, yes. Escape."

 

* * *

**Chapter 3:**

* * *

A knock on his door caused Malcolm to look up. He took in the space around him. They'd moved him yesterday. He'd forgotten. He was no longer in a cell. Now, it was more of a… he blinked, trying to clear his vision. More of a hospital patient room. Likely no less secure for that. He looked to the ceiling, seeing no pipes. Possibly more secure, actually; or at least safer.

At least he thought they'd moved him yesterday. He was suddenly less sure. The bed he was sitting on seemed familiar. There was a window on the wall, letting in sunlight, and another, smaller window in the door itself. A desk, a chair, all seeming familiar. The bed he was sitting on. His legs were crossed under him, his back against the wall behind him. He wondered where Trip had gone. The man had been impossible to escape, earlier, and now, he was gone. He felt like he'd seen Dr. Furman as well. And Phlox? Maybe it was the drugs. He knew they had… he could feel their effect on him, and he thought he remembered… God, he was tired. He felt anchored there. Heavy. Leaden. His body. His head. He couldn't… He curled the white blanket below him into his hand, feeling its texture. The slight roughness of cotton rather than the softness of a microfiber. He smoothed the fabric out again, thinking that he may have been sitting there for a while.

The door opened as the knock came again. A man peered around its edge. An orderly or nurse… Khalid… something. He recognized him, realizing he'd obviously been in this room for longer than he thought, if we was recognizing the nursing staff.

"You have a visitor," Khalid said. He stepped aside, waving in someone from behind him. Archer. Captain Archer. Here in uniform, made slightly more casual by the open button at the collar.

"Hey, Malcolm." Archer smiled slightly, although it didn't touch his eyes. He grabbed a chair, turning it to face Malcolm as he slid into it. He crossed one leg over the other, resting his hands on his knee.

Malcolm considered the man. Archer looked a bit the worse for wear, his tiredness showing around his eyes. "How long have I been here?" Malcolm asked.

Archer looked a bit surprised at that question, although it was obvious he was trying to hide his reaction. "Two weeks, give or take."

Malcolm cocked his head to the side, trying to remember. "Have you been here before?" he asked, unsure. He thought he might recall the captain having visited, but as with his memory of Trip, he wasn't sure if that was real, or just a figment of his imagination. Archer nodded, but before he could speak, Malcolm added, "Sorry, Captain. They've got me 'drugged to the gills', as Trip described it, and I'm having a hard time tracking."

"Don't worry about it," Archer said. "I was here about a week ago with Trip. Do you remember?"

Malcolm froze. Maybe this Archer wasn't the real Archer at all. If he'd been here with Trip, he couldn't possibly be. Testing his theory, he said, using his utmost to appear calm, "Trip's dead."

Archer uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, closing the distance between them. "Trip's not dead," he said.

"No, he is," Malcolm said, his voice shaking despite his best efforts.

Archer shook his head, eyes gone from tiredness to concerned wariness in a flash. "His mom's here visiting with him."

"But Trip was here," Malcolm said.

"Yes, with me, when I visited," Archer replied, his voice calm but his eyes far from it.

"That's not what I meant. And I saw you," Malcolm said flatly.

"Saw me doing what?" Archer asked cautiously.

"You and T'Pol, packing up Trip's stuff to send it home to his family.

"That didn't - "

"I saw you," Malcolm insisted, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward on the bed, fingers splayed across its surface.

"What did you…?" Archer paused, seeming to consider something. "Were you there helping?"

"No, I was…" Malcolm hesitated, trying to remember more clearly. He could recall the scene. Archer and T'Pol, talking. But it was like he was an observer, not a participant. "I don't know."

"We never packed up Trip's stuff," Archer said firmly. "Trip didn't die. He's very much alive, here in San Francisco, visiting with his mom right now."

Malcolm shook his head. He slid to the edge of the bed and made to stand, feeling Archer's hand on his arm when he stumbled.

"Maybe you should sit down," Archer said from beside him, his voice quiet.

"No, I'm…" Malcolm said, sliding away from Archer's grip. He knew that Trip was dead; he'd died trying to save Archer when Enterprise had been boarded. That move with the plasma relays. So unlike the man – not in that he woudn't step in to save the captain, of course he would. But to have died like that…?

Malcolm walked to the wall, putting a palm to it, feeling a reassuring coolness. Head down, he could sense Archer's presence behind him, no doubt ready to step in should he need it. But he needed to be up, moving. He needed… there was a lot that he needed. He turned and, back to the wall, let himself slide down to a seat on the floor. "I'm good, I'm just…" Tired. Drugged. Hallucinating – Trip, Archer, or both, he wasn't entirely sure. Off his rocker, that was certain. Mad. Doubting everything. Pulling his legs up, he draped his arms across his knees and let his chin rest on them, eyes closed. "Just so bloody tired," he heard himself say.

Malcolm heard Archer move beside him, squat down and, being the touchy feely man that he is, place a hand on Malcolm's arm. "Trip's very much alive."

And with that, Malcolm started to cry, or to laugh – he wasn't sure which – because that was exactly what Trip himself had been insisting all along.

 

* * *

**Chapter 4:**

* * *

Malcolm sat on the sand next to his surfboard, board shorts and rash guard shirt still wet, the drips from his hair tracing tracks down his face and neck. He could smell the sunscreen and water, hear the waves rolling in as he let the light filter through his closed eyelids, turning his world red. At this time of day, any mist rising off the ocean was beginning to burn off with the strengthening sun. He liked this part of the day; this part of Florida. On the Atlantic side, a less touristed beach up north, near Saint Augustine. Less crowded than other parts of the state; those that still were intact and getting tourists, and those that were not, and rebuilding.

His sister had wanted him close, near her in England; and he could have done. Similarly, his mom wanted him in Malaysia, no doubt to keep an eye on him. Understandably. And although it would have been nice, perhaps even necessary from both their perspectives and those of his doctors, that he have such a support system near him, he felt that he could use the distance; and he didn't want to be as much of a burden as he would have been on them, living near them as he struggled with his disorder and its treatment. "Post traumatic stress...", indeed. So he'd come here. Maybe, in part, because this was Trip's home state. Maybe because this was about as far from Starfleet as one could get and still be in the continental United States. Regardless, it had been easy to find occasional work in the recovery from the Xindi attack. And he now had a pretty steady part time gig working at the surf shop behind him. That, and the money he had from his time in the service was enough to help him get by. He had all he needed.

"They told me I'd probably find you here."

Malcolm didn't look up. He knew Trip was referring to the people at the surf shop, and he was used to Trip's coming and goings.

No, wait. The medications were taking care of that, and he was on them right now, so this was the real Trip. Despite his medications, sometimes, things did get a bit confusing. Off them was worse. Last time he'd gone off the medications, he'd ended up in Pennsylvania, "self medicating" with drink and… best not to think about that. So this, here, was in fact the real Trip.

"How you doing?"

Malcolm opened his eyes and peered up through his fringe, trying to see the source of the voice. He didn't push his hair away; instead, he let it screen his view of the world and of Trip Tucker, the man himself. Trip was dressed casually, feet bare on the packed sand, socks tucked into the sneakers he held in one hand. He looked a bit older, but still like himself. Malcolm nodded, then moved his eyes to the waves.

"How's the surf?" Trip asked, sitting beside Malcolm on the sand.

Malcolm shrugged. It hadn't been bad this morning. A bit rough, most likely related to a storm that was due in tomorrow. He'd had to watch out for potential rip current, but otherwise, he'd thought it was good. The sun was nice. Not too hot yet; still early. He tried to come early when he could, and when the waves allowed, before most people got to the beach. At this hour, it was mostly retirees walking the shoreline, the occasional person on a bike, a couple of surfers like himself. Earlier on, it had been people coming here before work – construction workers here for the rebuilding efforts, office workers here rebuilding their lives. But not many. He didn't like crowds. Actively avoided them now.

Malcolm recalled the last time Trip had visited. Trip had been surprised to find Malcolm was now surfing. Shocked, even. Questioning his sanity, perhaps - but that was nothing new, he supposed. He smiled at that. Most people who knew him well would be. In fact, even he himself had wondered, at first. But that was also nothing new. So in the end, he'd taken up the sport as a deliberate challenge. Was he mad? Could he do this? Surf, despite his aquaphobia - master the water; master himself? With so much of the rest of his life out of his control, he'd been determined to do this one thing. Perhaps especially this one thing. To separate the man he'd been before, from the one he was now.

His sister, Maddie, was the one person who'd understood. They'd taken different paths, lead different lives, but they were actually quite similar under all that. She'd understood his need to try to wrestle some semblance of control over something that had been heretofore uncontrollable. Or to at least try. She'd even sent him his first bar of board wax. He'd not even owned a surfboard yet.

Trip had been surprised - understandably considering Malcolm's fear of water - but along this area of the shore, that fear was more manageable. Thus why he'd picked this particular location. The water was actually rather shallow, only waist or shoulder height for quite some distance out, the waves usually less than a meter high - enough to really surf but not by any imagination huge. It was a challenge he felt he could face, something to focus on when so much else in his life seemed to be unmanageable. He'd also quickly gotten good enough that he spent most of his time on top of the board, rather than beneath the water. Still, he always kept the shoreline in view, and no matter how early he came there was always someone else there, riding the waves. He gave a sarcastic half smile - his fellow surfers didn't seem to mind him being... as he was now. They hadn't known him, before.

"Hey, Malcolm; you in there?"

There was no annoyance in Trip's tone – more like curiosity. Just checking he was listening. Trip didn't ever really seem to mind Malcolm not replying. The man had a gift in terms of the whole talking thing, and he could carry on a conversation for the both of them. He heard Trip turn to face him. "I heard from Phlox a couple of days ago. He said he'd been trying to reach you."

Malcolm shrugged again.

"I know it's been a while since… since all this started." Trip hesitated. "Since you got sick."

"Four years, three months, thirteen days," Malcolm said, eyes still on the sea. He could see some fishing boats far offshore, most likely coming in with a late catch.

Trip paused again, maybe surprised that Malcolm had finally replied; maybe surprised that Malcolm knew, to the day, when he'd got ill. Trip went on, "I know you've been through a lot." He stopped, and dropped his voice. "I know you've tried a lot of different…" He sighed. "Listen, Phlox doesn't think…" He sighed again. "Malcolm, could you look at me for a minute?" When Malcolm didn't react, Trip put a hand on Malcolm's arm and gave a small tug.

Malcolm turned his head to Trip, squinting against the light. The sun was higher in the sky, now. It was likely to be a typical Florida day. Hot as hell and twice as humid. Now that sounded like something Trip would say. He smiled slightly.

"Malcolm?" Trip said.

It was hard to focus. The meds, his illness, or both. But he tried. He dragged his eyes back to Trip, consciously taking a breath.

Trip turned his entire body to face Malcolm. "Phlox thinks he may have figured something out. He wants to see you. Would you be willing to go to San Fran and meet with him?"

Malcolm wasn't sure what to think. Breaking Trip's gaze, he deliberately looked away. To the ocean, to the couple jogging down the beach, to the dunes, anywhere.

"Malcolm," Trip said, hand to his knee to draw his attention.

"I don't…" Malcolm said, clenching his fists and pressing them into the sand below him. He could feel the tension building in his shoulders. It wasn't that he didn't want to. He'd already tried everything. They'd tried everything. He was as he was, now. He'd... he was... he was considerably better. He had things under control. And from here, they'd told him that things might continue to get better with time and treatment. Or things might not get better with time and treatment. Might; might not.

Might not.

It was hard enough, difficult enough, to keep himself grounded here, to make himself take his meds even when he knew they were interfering with his thinking; to keep taking them even though he knew this was the best they might make him feel. And yet the alternative would be worse. So he did; he took them, he followed the treatment plan. And he lived his life. Even liked it. It just wasn't the life he'd planned or expected.

"I totally get it if you don't want to do this. But Phlox…" Trip tapped him on the knee again. "Phlox is the one person I'd make an exception for, on stuff like this."

Malcolm considered Trip's words.

Might; might not.

Might.

"I'd rather he come here," Malcolm finally said.

"The facilities he needs are at Starfleet medical."

Malcolm didn't like to travel. Not anymore. He found it… difficult. It was hard to keep things straight when they kept changing. He was… he felt better when he was home, in his routine. It would be hard to break from all this, even for a short time. He wasn't sure, if he left, if he could keep himself intact. He rubbed a hand against his shorts to dislodge some of the sand, then pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Headache?" Trip asked softly.

Malcolm shrugged again, knowing he was basically admitting as much. He closed his eyes, trying to center himself, willing the ache away, rubbing his hair roughly. Sticky with salt, of course. Likely standing on end, now. He wore it longer than he had back when on Enterprise. No reason not to.

"Sorry, probably my fault," Trip said.

Malcolm knew he wasn't following Trip's meaning.

"For the headache," Trip said, seeming to read Malcolm's mind.

When Trip went to say something else, Malcolm interrupted. "Would you come with?" He hesitated. "If I go." He opened his eyes, taking in the surprised look on Trip's face. His friend had obviously thought that convincing him to go was going to be considerably more difficult than it just had been. And he wasn't quite sure why he was agreeing. But as Trip had said, if anyone might be able to help him, it would be Phlox, and with Trip there… Trip might make this a bit easier.

"Yeah. Sure. Of course." Trip stood, holding out a hand. "I've got a transport –"

"Now?" Malcolm asked, surprised. "Seriously? Dude."

"I figured the sooner, the…" Trip raised both eyebrows. "Did you just actually say 'seriously, dude'?" He laughed. "Aren't you supposed to be British?" He looked around. "How long have you been on this beach, exactly?" He looked around as if he were afraid that surfing lingo might be catching.

At that, Malcolm smiled. He'd been here for long enough; he supposed he'd picked up a bit more than surfing. Taking Trip's hand, he let the man haul him to his feet. He'd try. For Trip; maybe even for himself. He'd try.

 

* * *

**Chapter 5:**

* * *

Malcolm sat on a biobed, kicking his feet against its base, finding the rhythmic movement calming. Trip had at least given him the chance to go home, shower, and change before they'd grabbed the transport to Starfleet Medical. And Trip wasn't asking him to stop with his legs, even though he'd imagine that what he was doing was annoying. It's not that he didn't know it was. It's not that he hadn't tried to stop. Even had done, a few times, only to start up again. This whole thing was – he should not have come.

He shifted, thinking he'd stand up, thinking he'd leave, only to find Trip's hand on his leg, anchoring him in place. "It's gonna be fine," Trip said, looking at him carefully.

Malcolm slid back slowly. Maybe he could do this. With Trip here, maybe he could.

At least they hadn't made him change into a gown – he still had on what he'd come in, including a hoodie and a long sleeved shirt, both right now hanging open over a tee. One never knew, in San Francisco, if it would be cold and foggy or warm and sunny, so he'd felt it best to dress for both, and now he was glad. He was cold, he was nervous, and the extra layers were helping with both. He played at the hem of his shirt, his fingers picking at the seam, tugging a loose thread there. Trip was sitting in a chair nearby, leg bouncing on his knee, looking just as nervous as Malcolm felt. He could still see a bit of sand on Trip's legs. He already missed home.

There was a knock just as the door slid open, revealing Phlox. Malcolm hadn't seen him in a good year, and he remembered those smiles, overly broad by human standards, but sincere. "How are you, Mr. Reed?" the doctor said, stopping near where Trip was sitting. With a nod to Trip, to which Trip replied with a casual wave of his hand, Phlox again looked to Malcolm with a smile.

Malcolm tried to smile back. Perhaps he even did. He pulled his sleeves down over his hands, pushing his fists into the surface of the biobed, pressing down. Nervous. He tried to calm his breathing. He liked Phlox, but last thing he needed was to… he did not want to be… oh, bloody hell – he pushed himself off the biobed and around the doctor, moving to the door, making to leave.

"Malcolm," came Trip's soft voice from beside him. "It's going to be all right. Phlox just wants to talk to you, that's all." He felt a hand on his arm, and after a moment, let himself be lead back toward the bed. But he wouldn't sit. He couldn't. Instead, he stood in front of the bed, head down. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and focused on his breathing. In, and out. Counting. In for three breaths, out for three.

"So what's going on, Doc?" Trip asked, giving voice to Malcolm's own question.

"There has been a development." Phlox said, getting right to the point.

Malcolm raised his head and peered through his hair to look at the doctor.

Phlox nodded to him, all seriousness. "I've been working with the Vulcans." Phlox picked a padd up off a nearby counter, glancing down at it, then up. "You remember, we'd run tests. I'd kept the samples and data." He paused a moment, tapping a finger against the padd. "I recently found something."

Phlox held up a hand as if to calm him, and he felt Trip's hand on his arm.

"It's okay," Trip said. Then to Phlox, "It's been four years, Doc," Trip said earnestly. "Why now?"

"As you said, it has been four years," Phlox replied. "With advances in technology, we can sometimes see things in new ways." He turned to face Malcolm. "You were infected by an engineered... for lack of a better term, I'm calling it a virus."

Malcolm backed up slowly, until his legs hit the edge of the bed. That was... new. He blinked rapidly, hands grasping at the edge of the surface behind him.

"Why would anyone...?" Trip let that trail off, seeming at a loss. "Why Malcolm?"

"We don't know that it was specifically targeted to Mr. Reed," Phlox said, raising one finger to make his point. "It certainly..."

He'd been the tactical officer on Earth's first warp 5 capable starship, Malcolm thought, as Trip and Phlox's conversation flew around him. Of course he'd been a target. They all had been targets. Enterprise, its crew, the Earth. This had been brought home for all of them when the Xindi had attacked. That, perhaps more than anything - the whole planet had grown up overnight.

He heard Phlox say "Terra Prime". That phrase, he caught.

Terra Prime, the xenophobic, "Earth First" terrorist organization, and the Enterprise, a ship with a Vulcan first officer, a Denobulan doctor, and a mission to reach out to new species. If not Terra Prime, then someone else. For a while, it had seemed like attacks had been coming from all sides - from both inside and outside of Earth. In one of the attacks, Trip had died. Malcolm looked at the engineer, then away, and rethought that. He'd thought Trip had died. His illness had made him think that his friend was dead.

These experiences had changed him. Changed them all. Years had passed since then. He wondered what his life would have been like, had this not happened, had he not become ill. He wasn't entirely sure it mattered, now. Except that it did.

Malcolm pushed away from the bed and was quickly across the room, not sure where he was going, just that he had to go somewhere. The conversation around him stilled, as did he. He stood with his back to the others, hands wrapped around himself, staring at nothing, and yet seeing... Trip dying, the Xindi destroy southern Florida, himself in the cell at Starfleet after having gone AWOL, flashes of memory. The thought that, after so long, Phlox may have found, have figured out, something, anything; that it maybe wasn't PTSD, or not entirely; that all this... He wasn't sure where to start, or what it all might mean.

"Are you all right, Mr. Reed?" That was Phlox.

Malcolm wasn't sure if he was all right. He wasn't sure... hands fisted around the cloth of his shirtsleeves, he held himself still.

He heard Phlox crossing the room, stopping several feet behind him, as if being careful not to come too close. "I can't make any promises," the doctor said, voice low. "The effects of the virus have been with you for several years now. And it's possible that you do actually have PTSD in addition to this virus."

So even if Phlox could cure the virus, which was apparently a big "if", there was no guarantee that he'd go back to being the man he was, before all this happened.

"What have you got to lose?" Trip said from beside him.

Exactly. He exhaled audibly, closed his eyes, and nodded.

 

* * *

**Chapter 6:**

* * *

Malcolm shook the water from his hair, using a hand to brush it away from his eyes. The sand beneath his bare feet was noticeably cooler then when he'd last been here, the sun no where near as warm, so rather than sit on the sand, he propped himself on his surfboard, legs crossed under him. If anything, the waves at this time of year were better than in the summer, and he'd found he really didn't mind the chill, although admittedly, it was pretty cold for the locals. Still, he was out here. One, because he was from England, and compared to beaches there, this weather was positively delightful. And two, the surfing helped him focus, feel more himself with all the changes he'd been going through.

It had taken some time, he thought, watching the waves curl toward the shore. Months, before Phlox's treatment had really begun to work, before he'd felt things come clearer. He still didn't know what had caused his illness: if he'd been deliberately targeted, if he was the only one affected. Obviously, he'd been the only one from Enterprise. Phlox's research and testing had shown that. Was it that there was also a genetic component, or environmental, that made it so this virus had hit him specifically, and so hard at that? Its onset had taken him off of the path he'd planned for his life. Its retreat freed him, again, to consider his path. If he was lucky and this change stuck, he was, in effect, cured; more or less; sort of. Mostly. And the treatment would perhaps be able to help others with his same illness, if there were others. Made sense that there might be; he knew Phlox was helping the investigation, but as Trip had said, it would likely take some time.

When Trip had last visited, he'd noted that Malcolm had seemed better. But Malcolm knew the truth of that type of statement. He was feeling... He thought a moment. 'Better' was the truth, but was he well? Whole? Himself? On this, he was unsure.

When Trip had visited, he'd asked if Malcolm had thought about coming back to Starfleet. If the treatment continued to work, of course - that was a key factor. And he had. Of course he had. He'd given it serious thought. But despite his being 'better', he knew he wasn't yet ready to make such a decision. Any decisions he'd make in his near-future should, he felt, only be those that were somewhat less momentous than throwing up his entire life and taking off for the stars. So rather than reply directly to Trip's question, he'd instead said, "I was thinking I might get a cat." He'd looked around his balcony where it perched above the sand, the ocean there just beyond the dunes in front of the houses. A cat would probably like this type of outdoor space, and he might be able to do something to screen it in, prevent the cat from getting out.

"That doesn't seem like you," Trip replied, lifting the beer bottle to his mouth.

"What?" Malcolm asked, his eyes focusing on Trip. He said, confused, "The cat?"

"No!" Trip said, laughing as he lowered the bottle onto the arm of the chair he was sitting in. "Well, yes, the cat, but more the whole Starfleet thing. I thought you'd jump at the chance. You used to be all 'Yes, Sir; No; Sir; Right away, Sir'," he teased. He tipped the bottle in Malcolm's direction. "I'd thought Starfleet was your life."

Malcolm sipped from his own drink. He thought a moment. "It was." But so much had changed. "I was thinking of staying here." And as the words left his mouth, he realized they were true.

Trip looked a bit surprised, although he was trying to hide it.

Malcolm could guess what Trip was thinking. That he should, or could, be up there on a starship, or out in San Francisco at Starfleet, or designing weapons for a contractor, or, or, or... But that instead here he was, working in a surf shop, hanging out on the beach, his aspirations only going so far as adopting a cat. Malcolm shrugged. He knew that Trip thought he could be doing more. Thing was, he wasn't sure he wanted to do more; or at least, not the type of "more" that he might have done before he'd got ill - not right now. He wasn't the same man he'd been before, and he needed time to figure out who this new man was. And yes, he'd freely admit that he liked the work he was doing now, he liked this life; and that more importantly, he needed more time to feel all... this... out. He liked the flexibility and freedom he had now. And by working at the shop, he got a discount. He huffed a small laugh. That had to count for something. And he realized, suddenly, that although there were a lot of things he wasn't sure of, one thing he was certain of was that he didn't want to trade this freedom for the regimentation of Starfleet or anything else.

"You sure?" Trip asked, looking at him closely, as if he was trying to read him. Which, Malcolm supposed, he was.

"For now, anyway," Malcolm replied. He propped his feet up on the balcony rail, crossing one ankle over the other as he leaned back in his chair. "I guess, as part of all this, I've learned to be more chill."

"Chill?" Trip said, eyebrows nearly at his hairline. He leaned toward Malcolm, motioning in the direction of the beach below them. "You've been spending waaaay too much time down there with the surfers, dude."

"I reckon so." Malcolm cast a glance to Trip. "What are your plans?"

"Not sure," Trip said. At Malcolm's obvious surprise, he continued. "My mom could sure use me. She wants to move back here, to Florida, rebuild her life."

"What about Enterprise?"

"I loved being on Enterprise, but with all that's happened, I'm thinking, it might be time to move on." Trip stared off at the ocean as it lapped high tide across the beach. "Settle down somewhere. Meet someone, if I can." He laughed, moving his eyes back to Malcolm. "My mom keeps asking me about grandkids, has fixed me up with three women since I've been on Earth." He shrugged. "Had an offer of a job back in San Fran, but I'm thinking I might look for something over here."

Malcolm nodded. It would be good, having Trip someplace nearby, even if it wasn't in the same part of Florida. And no doubt, Trip wouldn't have a problem finding a job – he could take his pick. As for meeting women - it had been a while since Trip dated. To his knowledge, Trip's last relationship had been with T'Pol, and that was some time ago, now. He thought a moment, considering Trip's history with women. Maybe Trip's mother was right. The man could use some help. Not that he himself was any expert on such things, but he'd met several nice women who surfed... so maybe... "If you do move back here, I'll teach you how to surf," Malcolm said, by way of a bribe.

"I might actually take you up on that." Trip smiled and added, "You know I'm going to suck, don't you?"

"Didn't you grow up in Florida?" Malcolm asked, already knowing that of course Trip had.

"Yes, but surfing wasn't a thing. I grew up on the Gulf side." Trip drew a straight line with his beer bottle, vertical across the air in front of him. "Water's flat like a pancake and, like, one meter deep." After a moment, he said, seeming to consider something, "I'd pay you for the lessons."

Malcolm waved that away.

"I'd pay you in beer, then."

Malcolm looked at Trip. "I don't drink, but thank you." At Trip's questioning look, he raised his glass. "This is iced tea."

"You used to…" Trip said carefully.

"I did," Malcolm said. He'd given up the booze, having used it to 'self medicate' in the past; and he wasn't willing to risk drinking again. He had enough to deal with. He twirled his glass across the table at his side, watching the rings of condensation form on the surface, making patterns. "I wanted to thank you," he said quietly.

"For what?" Trip said, his voice soft.

"For all this," Malcolm said, raising his glass to take in the world around him. For making him see Phlox, helping him recover. For more than that. For sticking by him when he was ill; when it would have been far easier to do otherwise.

Trip reached across the table and tapped Malcolm's glass lightly with his bottle, making both chime quietly. When Malcolm looked up, Trip nodded. "Good to have you back, Malcolm."

"It's good to be back," Malcolm said, meaning it. His life was before him - in a way, a blank slate. So much had happened over the past few years; he found that he was quite looking forward to what might happen next.

x-x

End

x-x

Huge thanks to everyone who read this, my first story in years. Special thank you for all of you who will review this. Please do let me know what you thought!


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